Letters To A Non-Existing Figure
by ImpossibleElement
Summary: Sherlock had never believed in miracles, nor he deluded himself with thinking that if he asked an impossible character for something, his heart's desire would be delivered. The fact that it was Christmas was inconsequential. Johnlock.


**Author's note: As promised, here is my Johnlock Christmas story, I hope you all like it.**

 **Have a happy Christmas.**

 **Letters To A Non-Existing Figure**

Sherlock Holmes is a man of science. Of hypothesis and experiments, of values and numbers. And he will probably never believe something lest he was given complete proof of it. He had never believed in miracles, or in magic in any sense of the word, nor he deluded himself with thinking that if he asked an impossible character for something, his heart's desire would be delivered. The fact that it was Christmas was definitely inconsequential.

At the end of the day, after it was proven that the whole Moriarty business had been a hoax, and the responsible -none other than one Mrs. Watson- had been taken away. Sherlock did get exiled from England, but thankfully after everything the detective did for the country, Mycroft found a way to convince the Parliament to let his brother bail on the suicidal mission and let him just live quietly somewhere else.

However, this to Sherlock was a "whole-nother" form of hell, as some may put it. Being shipped off undercover to the USA, to California of all places, left him unable to work in order to protect his identity, bored out of his mind, frustrated at the idiocy of Americans, sweating by the hot weather, and utterly lonely.

Of course, this wasn't the detective's first idea, at least for the latter instance. But an awkward and irritating conversation with Mycroft -who annoyingly was always right- had him convinced of not engaging in his usual selfish ways and refrain from asking his blogger to accompany him. Knowing the doctor, he would take pity on him and feel obligated to come along, even if he had family, friends, and a job in London.

If the soldier was to leave all of that behind to follow him this time, it had to be on his own terms. He couldn't force a life-changing decision like this one on him, John had to offer his escort. And since he didn't, the boffin was packed, and shipped away to the other side of the world alone.

The dynamic duo still communicates in one way or the other, obviously, couldn't keep those two apart. Except of course, when they _are_ apart. Thousands of Kilometres are not enough to break a friendship like that, but they may be enough to complicate it a bit. Emails and texts are always welcome, and if we're being honest, both men cherish them like a lifeline. But time-zones and jobs and real life are very cruel indeed. So they do what they can, and sometimes what they shouldn't, to stay in touch. One time the detective pretended to be sick, just so John would have mercy on him and stay until very late to try and _cheer him up_ , even if he had work in the morning. Not that the blogger needed to know that.

After almost a year of living in different sides of the planet, John decided to plan his well deserved holiday from work -five days- and use it to go and visit his friend for Christmas. He knew the detective would probably be alone, and he couldn't bear the thought of Sherlock spending that day on his own. Even if he knew his friend doesn't really care for Christmas one way or the other, and certainly not when there's no one else around to coax it into him, he missed him and he wanted to spend the celebrations with the most important person for him in the world. And if he was being completely straight with himself, he had not felt completely straight towards his former flatmate in a long time.

So, there he was, on the doorstep of a classical L.A. flat building that he is 99.07% sure Sherlock hates. With the large windows, and minimalistic look. All white, and orange and most likely hateful for his friend's gloomy tastes. He rang the doorbell to the fifth floor and waited for the boffin's voice to come out of the speaker. Instead, there just came the sound of a buzzer letting him in. The blonde man pushed the doors open and took the lift -" _elevator_ "- up to the new flat and opened that door too.

The inside of the place was as modern as the outside, but the clutter, and papers, and clearly neglected experiment in the kitchen's stainless steel surface made it look more cosy, less impersonal. "It's quite a big place for just yourself." The doctor couldn't help but remarking once he saw the pyjama-and-dressing-gown clad friend. Realising that the figure curled up in a lonely armchair which sat in the sitting room, with its complement in the same state somewhere far away in London, was the only thing that could feel like home now.

He thought then on why it had seemed like a good idea to let his best friend leave without him; but he remained adamant on his opinion about the situation: he refused to force his presence on Sherlock if the boffin did not request for it. He had already managed to wreck the now -albeit forcefully- retired detective's life so throughly, the last thing he wanted was to impose on said curly-haired man's chance to start over. Of course, that could never erase the churn in the stomach he got every time he thought about the younger man being miserable in another country, but hopefully -if unlikely- he would not be completely alone.

However those selfless wishes got mercilessly crushed when the other man answers truthfully. "Mycroft pays for it, and I don't want a flatmate." The friend he hasn't seen in almost a year said waving an arm in dismissal, but John knew him well enough to know it was no little matter to be completely on his own in a foreign ground for him. His Aspergers was probably acting up worst than ever. The blogger tried to swallow his guilt quickly.

"So, don't you have a friend?" He tried fruitlessly, and his best friend glared at him; yet, there was something soft in his eyes, as if he were glad to see him. John knew the detective may never admit it, but he really thought the madman had missed him just as much as he had. "Well not a friend -God forbid," The doctor joked, which earned a snort from the other. "But someone you know and talk to?" The blogger continued placing his luggage on the guest room, and started unpacking clothes and knick-knacks he brought.

"No," Answered the curly-haired man. "I don't even know anyone's name." He said truthfully while snooping inside the other's suitcase, but not helping in the slightless.

"Well, we both know that isn't a very relevant aspect for you in a friendship." John laughed and the detective faked outrage, however, his mouth was already curling with amusement. The doctor snatched his socks from the boffin's curious hands. "Maybe you can find someone to share the flat with?" He offered, even if jealousy was gnawing at his bones, the detective should never be alone.

Sherlock stopped what he was doing and looked down at his hands. "No." He said simply, but the word was laden with an untraceable emotion the doctor failed to pin-point. It almost sounded like forlornness.

John felt like a knife had been pushed through his gut at the tone, but also knew completely well that he couldn't do anything about it. With a forced light voice, he continued. "Maybe you can find someone, you did found me," He commented, but the posture in his friend did not seem to change. "Deduce them, see what happens." He knew is was a bit unlikely that anyone else could take as much fascination out of being psychologically stripped bare in public as he had, specially in another continent. Yet, he felt a deep sorrow and responsibility for his former flatmate's situation that he had to attempt something.

"You know I don't trust _people_ easily." Responded said boffin, the mood completely changed from the easy-going atmosphere they had when he had arrived. The doctor left the folding for later and sat on the bed next to his best-friend.

"You trusted me after one day." He argued, running his hands over his folded shirts.

The detective next to him was a bit scandalised by that statement, as if he could not believe John had included himself in that category. "You are _John_ ," He assured. "You are not 'people'." The meaning of the reiteration was not lost on the soldier, but nor was the fact that he had not been that different from every other random stranger when the madman first invited him to rent a flat together.

"I was once." He answered with seriousness. Sherlock lifted his face to watch him, deciphering everything the other was not saying but clearly wanted to communicate with the other. That was something they did a lot lately, ever since the curly-haired man had shot another human being to ensure his happiness. They lived off of half-said truths and unspoken words like a private language; for their ears only and not to be broken or burdened by the weight of the _could-have-been's_. They both silently wondered how was it possible to conjure up a life where they had still been strangers; a task too difficult after they had already permeated each other's life so throughoutly that even childhood memories seemed to be invaded by the other's presence.

The blonde shrugged and smiled sadly, and the boffin knew it was his turn to try and carry out the conversation. "You shot a cabbie for me that day," He offered. "I don't think anyone else would be up for that."

"Who knows?" The older man replied wistfully. "Maybe you'll find someone who can blog your new adventures." He tried, with a hint of levity to try to round back to the easy company they were having. He didn't want to ruin the happy mood during the few -not enough- days he will get to spend with his madman.

"I've already got a blogger." The detective reminded him, almost as if even thinking about replacing him was such a hurtful idea that he should not dare to propose it.

"Yes," John conceded. "And he lives in London while you live here." They both stayed silent after that, not believing there was something they could say about it. Their situation was much less than ideal, but it was what they had; and they would have to cherish that small amount of time however they could.

That's exactly what they did. They spent the days doing all sorts of crazy things, which may or may not have included a very tiny larceny of some tangerines. Sherlock showed him a small crime scene which he had been secretly investigating and John talked to him about how the Yarders were completely in over their heads without him.

On Christmas Eve, they both were sitting on the floor around the Christmas tree John had insisted on buying, and exchanging gifts. A tumbler of scotch next to each of them and ripped wrapping paper littering the surface of half the flat. They chatted animatedly about various things. The boffin explained his newest experiment with diverse maggots, and his friend talked to him about Lestrade, and Molly, and Mrs. Hudson. Even Mycroft was the subject of debate on whether he had actually lost any weight or not.

"You know he's doing everything he can, right?" John asked him. He knew how difficult it could be to get the Parliament to allow your little brother to come back to the country after he had assassinated an important figure in front of hundred of witnesses.

"I know." The other replied, but the look on his face showed him how much he wanted everything to be different.

"He'll get there," The doctor insisted. "He just needs a bit more time. He's not Father Christmas." He joked, hoping to reassure the detective that none of his friends and family had just forgotten about him.

Sherlock watched him for a bit, scrutinising his expression. Then, as was his usual manner, presented him with a surprisingly funny statement to kill off the tension. "He does looks like him." He commented, a smirk forming across his face.

The blogger laughed, for quite some time, throwing in a _'git'_ to him without any real bite. After they both had calmed down from their amused fit, the doctor continued the conversation. "You know," He said, reminiscing all those times his sister sat with him on his dad's desk to scrawl the old Saint Nick a letter. "Harry and I used to write letters to him every year." He absentmindedly gathered the closest scattered remains of their present wrapping and smoothed it out flat on the floor. "We didn't always get what we asked for, of course. But just the illusion of asking for what we wanted was very...comforting." He finished and smiled at his friend.

The detective rolled his eyes and sighed in mocked exasperation. "John, he's not real." He stated, while the blonde raised an eyebrow and motioned him to explain further, clearly having the time of his life. "He is a ridiculous notion derived from dubious history that promises children all over the globe a consumerist reward at Christmas in order to make them behave themselves the other three hundred and sixty four days of the year."

"Yes," John agreed. "I figured you'd say that." The both of them started giggling again, obviously it had been a very bad idea to mix the scotch with that nice wine Lestrade had gifted them.

The night went on in a similar manner, and if they were being completely honest, and ignored their new set of _'things-unsaid'_ rules, the both of them would admit it was the best night they had had in a very long time. It almost felt like when they first met and everything was new and easy, and complications consisted only of milk, chip and pin machines, and nicked Scotland Yard's batches. Before Moriarty came to tear their universe apart, before Magnussen burned their world up and Mary scattered the ashes. Back when it truly was just the two of them, against whatever London had to throw at them. Sherlock and John would remember those times well up into their wrinkled stage of life, and would forever wished them back, even if only in spirit.

What the soldier had said had stuck with the musician well into 3 o'clock in the morning. He knew it was completely irrational to find solace in just asking for what you desired, but he remembered the feeling, from back when he was a very little boy and Mycroft lent him his crayons to doodle some thing or other in a piece of paper and later having it magically appear under the tree on Christmas day. He was entirely aware that writing Father Christmas a letter was futile and juvenile, and will definitely not result in him getting what he wanted -that was impossible. Yet he felt a strong compulsion to do it. He was astonished by his own ability to be that desperate. If you asked, even 'till this day, what actually propelled him to get up and take a piece of paper and a pen from his night table, he wouldn't know what to respond; but that's what he did.

John was up at 10 am the next day. Ready to pack a bag and travel to the airport; or as ready as he would ever be to leave his detective behind again. He started rummaging the sitting for anything he might have missed earlier and frankly, straightening up the place a bit, he knew Sherlock would not probably be bothered with it until it became completely unpractical. As he was picking up one of the last pieces of paper form the floor, he noticed something sticking out of the base of the tree. Something white and smooth, and rectangular. As he pulled it out he recognised the improbable: it was a letter, addressed to Saint Nicholas in the North Pole, written in his friend's beautiful but barely legible handwriting. He was shocked.

He hesitated in opening it. It looked like something private, but he just had to know what the detective could want so much to resort asking bloody Santa Clause for it. The sheet was covered in words, and he smiled fondly at the fact that only Sherlock would like to get that verbose with a Christmas tradition imagined for children. As John started reading, he was not prepared for the amount of _never-before-imagined_ insight he now knew.

 _Father Christmas:_

 _I know this is completely irrational and that writing to you will not benefit me in the slightless, but John said it help; and I trust his judgement better than anyone else's, including my own on some occasions. I already deleted everything for which I've ever asked and you have not brought me, and I really require your assistance this time. So, for now I will kindly ignore that glaring fact of your non-existence in order to ask you a favour._

 _Let me tell you first: I really, honestly love him. Yet, I got myself exiled from my own country for murdering a blackmailer to keep him and his would-be family safe. Apparently, that was the wrong thing to do. He, unable to leave his life behind, stayed in London while I live here in insufferable Los Angeles. I admit it's been tough, because I only get to see him in holidays and that means tomorrow he will be flying away from me again. I've already got presents, and frankly I would trade all of them and so much more in a heartbeat if you grant me one request: I require you to find a way to make it snow in California. I don't want him to go, and I already ran through all of the possible scenarios in my Mind Palace and have come to the conclusion that a bad weather and cancelled flight would be the only way. I'll even settle for rain, just give me something to force him to stay for a bit more time._

 _\- William Sherlock Scott Holmes._

 _I just checked the weather report for tomorrow and it said it would be a clear, sunny day. What happened to the accord we had struck? I demand you to make it go away. I realise I'm asking for the impossible, and making a drastic change in the weather -even if you had the power to do so- and risking to teeter the climate balance of the planet just so a murdering sociopath could have a couple more days with the only person he has ever truly loved is beyond the bounds of possibility; But I really need my blogger sitting here with me, next to the fireplace._

 _Just please?_

The final part was written in a rush, almost as an afterthought. John hadn't realised he was clutching the letter so tightly that it was now wrinkled at the edges. He could not even begin to describe what he was feeling, his friend would never in his life cease to amaze him. He felt like a complete idiot about having decided on staying in London, thinking that Sherlock would not want him with him. The both of them had been so alone, and had been depriving themselves of each other's presence for the sake of the other. He would have laughed if the situation wasn't so emotionally taxing. The sound coming from the madman's bedroom alerted him of his promptly apparition, and he had just about time for stashing said letter in the inside pocket of his jacket. He doubted the detective would notice he had taken it; he probably wouldn't even remember writing it while being a bit drunk and very tired.

The younger man padded softly into the sitting room and smiled when he saw his friend. The suitcases at his side warranted a small frown, but his friend's real attention was on his own face, clearly searching for the reason he was reading guilty and secretive signs off him. The doctor grinned back and shrugged, allowing the detective to understand that he was not wrong in his reading, yet the soldier did not wish to provide further information.

"Well, goodbye." The blonde said dumbly. He failed to know what else could he do now. His flight was in little more than two hours, he was already very late. However, he found he didn't want to leave. Not before, and specially not now that he had read what his detective really felt for him. Deciding to fix the situation as soon as possible he settled on a truthful declaration. "Your present will arrive in a few days." He admitted, while they other gave him a confused expression.

"You already gave me a gift." Sherlock reminded him, because he couldn't make out why would he ever need to receive two material presents from his blogger. Not that he wouldn't cherish them with his life.

"Maybe," The other started, a slow smirk appearing on his handsome face. "I fancy giving you another one." He commented, grabbing his friend's elbow reassuringly.

The brunet looked at the point of connection for a couple of seconds, before gathering himself and aloofly responding. "You are starting to sound like Gavin." He said, and John laughed and retreated his touch. "Besides, I don't need another one." The fact was added as a stalling point, making it stark clear that he did not wish to see him off just yet.

"He's great, Sherlock." John, for his part, had to pull away eventually, he was helpless at the moment. "Honestly, you should learn the name of one of your closest friends." He chided without any real heat. His thoughts were considerably elsewhere, already thinking up what options he had. "I know you don't," He offered while scratching the back of his own neck in nervousness. "Need another gift, I mean." He explained the sudden _non sequitur_. "But, you'll like this one."

The detective came to stand directly in front of him. Looking down at his expression and not taking his eyes off even for a moment. It seemed to the doctor that he was probably trying to memorise his face, to make sure he didn't lose any precious chance he had now. Those he would miss in the future. "Goodbye." John offered, and said nothing more. He grabbed his suitcase from the floor and made for the door. He knew he should have kissed, or even hugged his friend goodbye, but he was already trying to keep himself together, he didn't know how the boffin would react and leaving on an awkward note was not how he wanted to remember this trip.

"John?" Sherlock called out before he could close the door entirely, sounding so broken by the single thought of him disappearing from his life again."Merry Christmas." He said, without any honesty. It was the first thing he could think to say. For he had just wanted to see his face once more; instead of his retreating back.

The older man stopped completely and turned around. At the lost look on his friend's eyes, which probably mirrored his own, he took three strides towards him. He brought his hands up slowly and placed them on both sides of his face. He didn't care whether he was crossing a line of their unspoken agreement of silence; he had to do something to at least ease that forlornness he could sense from his reason for living. He tilted Sherlock's head down and promptly stood on his tiptoes to place a gentle kiss on his forehead. Anything more would have broken both their hearts irreparably. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock." He said as he released him and turned around.

Once he was out of the door he grabbed his phone, and with his hands shaking, he picked the number four on his speed-dial and put the mobile to his ear. He had a lot of things to do.

A few days after Christmas, just passing New Years, the detective had not heard from John apart from the useful text saying he had arrived at London safe and well. The curly-haired man lounged on the couch in his pyjamas, silently watching the mess he had made trying to get down the tree. A sudden memory came to him unbidden. He remember writing a letter on Christmas Eve, a letter that was surprisingly addressed to a fat, imaginary man clothed in red. He failed to know how he had not recalled that before; he supposed it had to do with so much worrying he had been doing about his situation with John.

He was terribly confused by his friend's actions. There never really was any personal space boundary between them, but they had never been ones for open affection. The kiss he gave him had thrown the sleuth. Plus, the radio silence of now left him with a hesitant dread that they might have just ruined everything for themselves by being sentimental. There was no use in taking steps towards something that was never going to get materialised thanks to their locations. It would only end in tragedy of catastrophic proportions that neither of them would want to experience. He had to know whether they had gone too far, but John was still not picking his phone, even though Mycroft assured him that he was well. The brunet knew he needed to get a hold of the doctor as soon as possible.

While he was pondering whether or not to call him for the eleventh time and probably letting it ring straight through voicemail, he heard the bell ringing. Tired and anguished he padded down the stairs of the small building and threw the door open forcefully; ready to yell at whomever was on the other side. He was clearly not in the mood for visits or idiotic neighbours forgetting their keys again.

However, as soon as his eyes landed on the figure ringing the bell, all his world just stopped, because the impossible had just become true. There he was: John, standing at his door with a horrible jumper and a sheepish smile tugging the corners of his mouth. The detective moved his gaze unto the floor, where several suitcases and bags were resting next to his feet.

"Mycroft said he will send everything else by monday." The soldier remarked shuffling his feet, expecting some sort of reaction from his immobile friend. "Is that alrig-" He started saying, but he never got to finish, since two long arms wrapped around his sturdy frame and held on tightly. The boffin was shaking with the mix of excitement and emotion he was experiencing.

"You said you didn't want to leave London, and your job and family." Stated the elated madman, smiling and searching in the other's face the confirmation that this was real, that he was really getting what he wanted most.

"You are more than family to me, Sherlock." The blonde replied, his two arms also coming to circle the other and finding their rest on his waist. "London is boring without you." The both of them laughed, and any tension that could had been between them faded. After a while Sherlock eagerly helped his blogger get the luggage upstairs and even dared a bold move by throwing it in his own bedroom. For the first time in forever, he really had a sort of certainty that his friend would not balk at the thought; might even welcome the straightforward insinuation.

As the blonde started to unpack his things around the flat for good, the sleuth thought again about the letter he had wrote. Seeing the doctor there, with him to stay; he marvelled at the fact that, even if he was definitely not real, stupid Father Christmas had still managed to found a way of making his wish come true.

 **Author's note: In case you were wondering, John's speed-dial list would look something like this:**

 **1 Lock (Sherlock, obviously)**

 **2 Mrs. Hudson**

 **3 Harry**

 **4 The Queen (Mycroft. Sherlock's idea)**

 **5 Greg**

 **6 Molly**

 **7 Scotland Yard**

 **8 Mike**

 **9 He's hurt again (Bart's)**

 **10 Sarah**

 **If you liked it, check out my other stories.**

 **And don't forget to return next week for the ending of one of my other stories: The Yellow Notebook (The Suit-Up Edition)**


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